


Safe as Houses

by rowaning



Series: Hope and Bards [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gore, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Trauma, Violence, a very bad time for everyone involved, the first fic in this series can absolutely exist as a standalone this is not mandatory reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowaning/pseuds/rowaning
Summary: Wilde makes a mistake and learns to fear even those he trusts most.A direct sequel to Home Is What We Make Of It
Relationships: Commander James Barnes & Howard Carter & Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Commander James Barnes & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Commander James Barnes & Zolf Smith, Howard Carter & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Howard Carter & Zolf Smith, Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde
Series: Hope and Bards [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108466
Comments: 27
Kudos: 10





	1. A Friendly Face

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to get very dark, very fast. There will be content warnings in the chapter notes.
> 
> Also, I have chosen to ignore certain aspects of both real-world and in-world logic in favour of Maximum Pain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde doesn't realize until much too late that something is very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Non-consensual drug use, coerced kissing, graphic depictions of violence, gore, major character death.  
> Content warning with a specific spoiler in the end notes.

Wilde was in a dingy hotel room in Tokyo. The skyline outside his window was obscured by the downpour that had been going on for months now, and there was a steady drip in the corner of the room as water fell from a crack into a bucket that had been placed beneath it.

It was certainly not his preferred level of accommodation, but one did have to keep a low profile during a war.

Wilde sighed, swapped the bucket for the empty one the attendant had given him, and dumped the partially full bucket in the sink before returning to the paperwork spread out on the low coffee table. He reread the Message transcription detailing when and where he was to meet his contact, although he had already memorized it. He was to arrive at the local temple of Zeus at noon tomorrow and wait outside. Normally, Wilde preferred to avoid such vague instructions, but Curie had been convinced that this contact had valuable information on their enemy’s logistics and he had agreed to a meeting.

He had arrived at this hotel yesterday, alone. Zolf, Barnes and Carter had been reluctant to let him go on a mission on his own, but he had insisted. It had required reminding Zolf that ‘no favouritism’ should apply to himself as well, and the dwarf had grumbled but eventually gave in, and Barnes and Carter followed suit.

Barnes had been trying to convince him to remove himself from active duty, and recently Zolf and Carter had joined forces with him. Despite Wilde’s protestations that the war hadn’t spread further than Europe, and he wasn’t going to go anywhere that they were certain was dangerous, they continually argued that since he had no combat abilities he should not be going on missions. They weren’t wrong, necessarily, but there were some things that Wilde had to take care of himself. Like this meeting.

He was having a hard time focusing on his paperwork. The constant dripping in the corner was rattling in his mind and he desperately wanted to be back in his office, listening to one of Zolf’s stories or letting Carter sit on his lap and play with his hair. Hell, he’d even take an awkward silence with Barnes over this empty room and it’s incessant _drip, drip, drip_.

Just when he was about to give up on paperwork for the night, there was a knock on the door. _That’s... odd_ , he thought. He’d specifically told the attendant not to bother him, perhaps there was some kind of emergency? Although if that was the case, presumably he would have heard a commotion. The walls of the hotel room were quite thin.

Wilde moved towards the door and cautiously checked the peephole, only to see Zolf standing outside, water dripping from his beard, holding a large paper bag that had gotten quite soggy and two bottles. Wilde was thrown for a moment, and stood frozen by the door. Zolf reached out and knocked again.

“Wilde, you in there? Did I get the right room?”

Hearing Zolf’s voice finally spurred Wilde into action. He undid the chain and opened the door, looking down at his friend.

“Zolf, I wasn’t expecting... what are you doing here?”

“Oh, ah- right. ‘Nother Message came in from Curie, got new info. Had to come find you. But we can talk about that after dinner, I’m assuming you haven’t eaten?”

Zolf held up the bag and the scent of warm ramen drifted up from it. Wilde’s stomach grumbled audibly, he hadn’t eaten since that morning. He opened the door wider, gesturing Zolf in.

“I’m afraid there’s only a coffee table and a couch to sit and eat at, I’ll clear off the papers.”

Zolf gave him a nod and walked inside. Wilde closed and chained the door behind him, then swept his unfinished paperwork into his briefcase. Zolf pulled a pair of containers out of the bag and set them on the table, then passed Wilde one of the bottles and a set of chopsticks.

“Doesn’t matter which one you take, they’re both chicken. An’ that’s a, um, lemon-soda-thing. I forget the name. The guy at the restaurant said it was good.”

Wilde nodded his thanks and sat back down on the couch, pulling one of the containers closer to him and removing the lid. It was cheap takeaway ramen but it smelled like heaven to his hungry senses. Zolf sat beside him and opened up his own container, and began to eat.

“Thank you, Zolf. Now what’s this new information you have for me?”

“Eat now, talk later. I could hear your stomach from across the room, and you’re getting way too skinny again.”

Zolf gave him a pointed look and Wilde conceded. He was right, the bard had been rather lax about taking care of himself lately. Everything was so complicated and stressful, it was difficult to make time for things like eating and sleeping. So he ate in silence and drank his lemon-soda-thing, which was quite a bit more sour than he was expecting, and listened to Zolf tell him about trying to find a takeaway shop that was open and how he’d had to balance the bag and the bottles so that the wet paper wouldn’t tear through.

Wilde got about halfway through his ramen before his chopsticks slipped out of his fingers. He tried to pick them back up, but he couldn’t quite hold his hands properly. Zolf’s voice swam into his ears, and there was an odd quality to it. One that was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place.

“Are you alright?”

The dwarf reached out and turned Wilde’s face towards him. There was something wrong with his eyes, he couldn’t quite focus. Was Zolf swaying, or was that him?

“Someth- something’s wrong.”

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and his lips wouldn’t move the way his mind told them to. Zolf was cupping his face in his calloused hands, staring at him with concern.

“It’s fine, Oscar. Everything is going to be fine.”

Wilde managed a lopsided smile at this. Of course everything was going to be fine. Zolf was here. The dwarf smiled warmly at him, stroking a hand down his cheek, then leaned in and kissed him.

In a small, distant part of Wilde’s mind, alarm bells started ringing. The slightly hazy, dominant, conscious part of Wilde’s mind ignored them and melted into the kiss. Zolf’s sturdy arms wrapped around him, one hand on his waist and the other on the back of his neck. Wilde’s eyes were closed but he could feel the dwarf’s chapped lips against his own, could feel Zolf’s strong body leaning into him and pulling him closer.

It was amazing. It was everything he wanted, everything he thought he could never have. It was Zolf, his friend, his colleague. The dwarf he was in love with, finally kissing him back. He brought his own arms up to clumsily wrap around the dwarf’s body, to drift lower and settle at his waist. Zolf broke the kiss for a moment and Wilde almost whined in protest before the whine became a moan as Zolf’s lips drifted down his neck.

The dwarf rearranged them, pushing Wilde back onto the couch and settling above him. He continued moving further down Wilde’s body, and the bard was gasping with every touch. Until he felt a hand begin to fumble with the cuffs looped around his left ankle.

Wilde froze immediately. The room was swimming around him and Zolf’s lips were on his bare chest and Zolf’s hands were on his ankle pulling at the cuffs and feeling around the locks. Something was wrong. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Wilde clumsily shoved at Zolf and tried to scramble backwards. No, not Zolf. Not anymore. The dwarf tightened his grip on the bard and flashed him a malicious scowl before pulling a rather large and nasty-looking knife from his belt and holding it to Wilde’s throat. Panic set in and Wilde began to hyperventilate, causing the blade to scratch against his skin.

“G’off me, who are you?” he slurred, barely able to string a sentence together.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Oscar. It’s me, Zolf. Your friend.”

The thing that was not Zolf (but gods, it looked and sounded so much like him) grinned, baring all of his teeth menacingly. Wilde tried to pull away but the dwarf was much stronger than him and all he got for his efforts was a sharp pain as the knife dug into his skin.

“Now how’s about I make this real easy for you. Either you can take off the cuffs,” Zolf said, gesturing to Wilde’s ankle. “Or I can cut them off.”

Wilde’s mind was hazy with drugs and panic and adrenaline. He had no idea what to do, what to say. He’d given Zolf the key to the cuffs months ago and had no way of opening them. So he just shook his head and stuttered:

“I-I can’t, I don’t- I don’t have it. I don’t have the key.”

The thing wearing Zolf’s face tilted his head and gave Wilde the most horrifying expression he had ever seen. Cruel pleasure and anticipation, and the confidence that he was very much going to enjoy what happened next.

“So be it, then.”

The knife was pulled away from Wilde’s throat, but before he could act, it was plunged into his shin, just above the cuffs. Wilde’s vision went red and he let out a scream of pain as the dwarf began to hack at his leg. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. His world had condensed onto a single point of agony. A single point of agony... and a distinct lack of pressure on his other leg.

Wilde knew he couldn’t beat Zolf in a fight, and he knew he couldn’t run on that leg anymore. But he also couldn’t lie there and do nothing to save himself, not when he was about to end up dead or worse, not when their enemy might get hold of all the information he knew. So he took his opportunity.

By some miracle, Zolf was distracted enough that when Wilde’s foot connected with his chest he fell backwards off of the couch. Wilde tried to stand, tried to get away, but the floor twisted beneath him and his legs couldn’t hold his weight. The dwarf screamed in rage, words that Wilde could not understand, and lunged at him. Wilde pulled back but not fast enough, and a flood of warm red obscured his vision while pain arced through his face.

Wilde managed a second kick from his prone position before Zolf could lunge again, and connected with flesh. Metal clattered against tile nearby, he must have knocked the knife out of the dwarf’s hand. A fist slammed into his chest and he choked as the air rushed out of his lungs. Weight settled on him, stocky legs straddling his chest, and another fist connected with his face. Lights popped beneath the red haze and he reached out his arm, scrabbling for something, anything he could use as a weapon.

And his hand closed around a leather wrapped hilt. His vision cleared slightly and in a single fluid motion he brought the knife up and plunged it into Zolf’s chest.

Blue blood poured from the wound, dripping down Wilde’s hand, still holding the knife, and soaking into his shirt. Zolf stood and staggered back, clutching at the blade buried in his chest. Wilde watched in horror as he opened his mouth and blue liquid streamed out, as he stumbled and fell. He watched as Zolf bled out on the floor in front of him, as the light faded from the grey eyes he loved so much. He watched as Zolf died, his life leaking out around the knife that Wilde had put there.

And the illusion finally broke, and lying before Wilde was a dead dwarf he had never met, face and hands covered in blue veins. He sat there for a moment, tears streaming down his face and infected blood on his hands, staring at the body. And then he left, taking his coat and his paperwork. Ignoring the pain that numbed his face and the agony that echoed up his leg with every step. He slipped out the hotel’s delivery entrance, numbly feeling bad about leaving the mess for the attendant, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

He walked into the rain, ignoring how it soaked into his clothes. How it chilled him to his core. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He had to get home.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning (spoiler): contains an imposter disguised as a loved one and using that deception to manipulate the perspective character.
> 
> To anyone reading through my works and thinking "Wow, they certainly have a very specific story they like to tell," yeah, yeah I do.


	2. Blood and Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde returns to the inn and Zolf is forced to take charge of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: Gore, graphic description of injuries. Description of medical procedures.

Wilde showed up back at the inn two days before anyone was expecting him. The innkeeper had seen him coming up the path and had shouted for Zolf and the others in broken English. The second he opened the door, Zolf knew something was wrong.

Wilde was limping. His face was a bruised, bloody mess and his shirt was covered in red and blue stains. His hair and clothes were soaked through and he was shivering as he lurched towards the inn. He stumbled, and his legs twisted beneath him. Zolf tried to dash forwards and catch him, but Barnes grabbed his shoulders and held him back just as Wilde raised a hand as if to ward him off.

“Don’t come any closer, I need to quarantine.”

His voice was hoarse, and Zolf could see a hint of blood in his mouth. Barnes pulled him back inside, keeping hold on his shoulders as Wilde limped down to the basement. Once he was a safe distance away, Zolf’s brain kicked into action.

“Ok, Barnes, grab the field medicine kit. Carter, get Wilde a change of clothes and a sack to put his old ones in, and maybe some towels.”

His companions nodded and rushed to their tasks, leaving Zolf in front of the secret door to the basement. He went down the stairs and found Wilde sitting in the cell, dripping wet and staring vacantly at the wall. Zolf pulled the door shut and went to lock it, then paused.

“I should come in there, I need to treat those wounds.”

Wilde looked at him, and while the blankness remained in his eyes the rest of his face was etched with a bleak fear.

“Absolutely not. I won’t allow you to put yourself in danger for my sake.”

He wanted to throw open the door and go inside, bards be damned. He was a cleric, he healed people! He helped people. But Wilde had told him not to, and Wilde was right. It was too much of a risk. So he locked the door and placed the key in his pocket and they waited in silence.

Barnes and Carter came downstairs. Between them they carried the field medicine kit that Wilde had made when he established this base, a set of Wilde’s clothes, a burlap sack, a pair of towels, and a bucket of warm water with a sponge. Carter handed Zolf his pile, then stared at Wilde for a moment. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he turned and practically ran out of the room. There might have been tears in his eyes, he was moving too quickly for Zolf to tell. Barnes opened up the food slot and passed his items through, then stood and nodded towards Wilde when he finished. He also turned to leave, but lingered for a moment.

“I had the chef start up a stew, I’ll bring some down when it’s ready.”

“Thanks, Barnes. Maybe give us a little bit, though. I’ll shout when we’re good.”

Barnes gave another stiff nod, then climbed back up the stairs, leaving Zolf and Wilde alone on opposite sides of the bars.

Zolf passed the items he was holding through the food slot, then took a deep breath.

“Alright, Wilde. Strip off, get cleaned up. That water won’t stay warm long. Put your stuff in the bag.”

Wilde complied easily, too easily. He didn’t say a word as he peeled off his ruined clothes, didn’t do anything for his modesty as he sponged himself down, clearing away the gore. Zolf didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. Once the majority of the blood had been cleaned off, Wilde looked... awful. There was a massive gash running down one side of his face, dangerously close to his right eye, still weeping blood. The other side of his face was marred by a hideous black bruise, disturbingly reminiscent of a black eye Zolf had given him once.

The rest of his body wasn’t in much better condition. Zolf could count his ribs, but that wasn’t new. As much as he and the others tried to get Wilde to eat properly there really wasn’t much more they could do about the bard’s lack of appetite. There was a thin red line on his neck, a small enough cut that it had already stopped bleeding, and black and purple bruises bloomed across his chest. His breathing was a bit ragged, but Zolf couldn’t diagnose a broken rib from a distance and would have to hope they were just bruises. And there was a deep cut, still bleeding heavily, just above the anti-magic cuffs on his left ankle.

“Shit.” Zolf breathed out as he saw the gash and the amount of blood coming from it.

Wilde looked down, and raised his eyebrows as if it was the first time he had noticed it. Only one went up, the other did a wonky half-lift that tugged against the wound on his face and made him wince.

“Alright, alright. We can handle this. Ok.” Zolf psyched himself up, then addressed Wilde. “Ok. Get rid of the old clothes, we’ll deal with those later. Put on a shirt and pants but skip the trousers, and grab that medical kit. That ankle’s gotta get stitched up, and if you won’t let me in there then you’re gonna have to do it yourself. I’ll walk you through it.”

Zolf tried to project a confidence he didn’t actually feel. He hadn’t done proper field medicine since, gods, since before joining the Poseidon lot. But he’d spent plenty of time on ships that didn’t have clerics, and hopefully he could remember enough from then to keep Wilde from bleeding out in the cell before he could do a proper examination. Remembering something, he quickly moved to the stairs and shouted up to the room above.

“Hey, Carter! Get me some alcohol, ideally something that ain’t got anything extra in it!”

He turned back to the cell to see that Wilde had followed his instructions and sat down on one of the towels.

“Oh, right. Here.” Zolf pulled a cord holding a small key from around his neck and shoved it under the slot. “You gotta take those things off.”

Wilde picked up the key and stared at it, eyes far away.

“You’re in the anti-magic cell, it’ll be fine. Just take them off so we can take care of your leg.”

Wilde slowly nodded, the first time he had acknowledged Zolf’s words outside of just obeying orders. He carefully unlocked one cuff and transferred it to his other foot, then followed suit with the other.

“Yeah, ok. That’s fine, they’re out of the way.” Zolf tried to sound encouraging. He never was good at bedside manner.

Carter came down the stairs and handed Zolf a bottle of clear liquid.

“Vodka. Don’t ask where I got it.”

The archaeologist left before Zolf could thank him, not even looking at Wilde this time. Zolf turned back to the cell and passed Wilde the bottle, getting a closer look at the wound. Wilde had cleaned the blood off as best he could, and his ankle had swelled around the cuffs, now showing an odd looking indent where they had been removed. Zolf couldn’t tell how deep the cut was from outside of the cell, but the way the skin pulled when Wilde’s foot moved had him guessing it went almost to the bone. The area around the cut seemed to be tinted red, but that might just have been the blood.

“Ok. Drink some of that, then pour some onto one of the dry bandages and clean the wound with it.”

Wilde stared at the bottle for a moment, then shook his head.

“Please, Wilde. I know you’ve got your whole thing about alcohol and dulling your senses, but this is going to hurt and we don’t have any proper anaesthetic. I dunno about you but I’ve never met anyone who can stitch up their own skin sober, and I doubt you’re the first.”

The discomfort on Wilde’s face was plain to see. He took a few short breaths, uncapped the bottle, and grimaced as he took a swig.

“That’s fine. Just something to keep the pain back long enough. It’s going to be ok, Wilde.”

The bard flinched at his words, but continued following Zolf’s instructions. He still didn’t say anything, but Zolf could hear the small gasps of pain that he was trying so hard to stifle as he dabbed at the wound with an alcohol-soaked strip of cloth. It was heartbreaking, having to watch his best friend treat his own wounds through the bars of the cage. Having to see the agony that Wilde couldn’t hide, imagining how it must feel. Zolf couldn’t remember the pain of losing his own legs properly anymore, time had faded the sensations in his mind, but he imagined this must be something like that.

“Ok, good. That’s good. Ok, get a clean bandage and pour some of the booze on that, then get out the suture kit and use it to clean the needle.”

It wasn’t the best option for sterilizing, but it was what they had. Wilde obeyed Zolf’s instructions, turning that empty-eyed gaze back towards him once he was finished. Zolf took a few deep breaths, clenched and unclenched his hands, and positioned his stool close enough to the door that he could get in quick if anything went wrong.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

* * *

30 minutes. 30 of maybe the most agonizing minutes of Zolf’s life. He had carefully coached Wilde through sewing his own skin back together, watching the bard’s shaky hands as they held the needle, studying his (much too pale) face for signs of fainting. In the end, there were 10 uneven knots holding the gash in Wilde’s shin closed and the blood had slowed and begun to congeal. Wilde was shaking, staring at the blood on his hands with hollow eyes and breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating.

“It’s ok. It’s done, you’re done. You did it.”

Zolf tried to sound reassuring, and Wilde gave no indication that he had heard.

“Right, you can put your trousers on now. No socks on that foot, tie a bandage around it and put a little pressure but not too much.”

Wilde complied, which Zolf interpreted as a good sign. At least he could hear and understand the dwarf. His face was still a mess, but there was no way Zolf could coach him through putting stitches in his own face, and it didn’t look deep enough to need them. The bleeding had stopped while they were working on the sutures, and Zolf had walked Wilde through wrapping a bandage around his head so it covered the wound without blocking his eye.

Wilde rolled up the bloody towels and discarded bandages and placed them in the burlap sack along with his old clothes, and pushed the bag back through the food slot. When Zolf went to pick it up, he shook his head again.

“Wait.”

It was the first thing Zolf had heard Oscar Wilde say since he had locked the cage. His voice was soft and hoarse, and Zolf wanted nothing more in that moment than to be able to hug his friend and tell him that he was safe, that he was going to be ok. But he couldn’t, so he just paused and waited for Wilde to continue.

“Don’t touch them. You have to get rid of it, to burn it. Don’t breathe the smoke. There’s blood on the clothes, infected blood.”

Wilde didn’t look at him as he spoke, he stared intently at the bag. Zolf nodded and grabbed his glaive, deftly using the flat of the blade to pick up the sack and carry it.

“Right. I’m going to go take care of this and get us some stew. I know you ain’t got anything you can use to pick that lock, but just in case: if I see you outside this cell I’ll run you through.”

Wilde nodded silently, and sat with his back against one of the stone walls of the cell. Zolf turned to the stairs, heading up to carry out his task, and hoped that his face hadn’t betrayed just how unsure of that statement he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's sad? If Wilde's scar had been caused by a friend from his past, who he trusted.   
> You know what's sadder and way more personal to the audience? If Wilde's scar had been caused by a member of the party, who he'd thought was dead.  
> You know what's sadder than that? If Wilde's scar had been caused by someone wearing the face of the dwarf he's in love with.   
> And you know what's absolutely heartbreaking? Zolf having to watch his best friend who's in love with him become a broken shell of a man with no clue what happened to him.


	3. Some Things Are Worse Than Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde is quarantined, and Zolf stands guard over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: descriptions of a character having nightmares, psychological trauma.

Zolf stood guard outside the cell alone. Barnes delivered meals for him and Wilde, occasionally exchanging pleasantries but not staying long. They both had their roles: Zolf watched Wilde, monitoring his injuries and searching for signs of infection, and Barnes kept Carter occupied upstairs. The archaeologist had been living with Wilde longer than Zolf and Barnes, and being unable to comfort his closest friend had impacted him much harder than the others. So Barnes kept him distracted as best he could, leaving Zolf with the unenviable task of sitting on the opposite side of the bars watching Wilde drift further and further away.

It was hard to say what part of guarding the cell was worse. During the day, Wilde sat, back against the stone wall, staring hollowly into the distance. He didn’t speak, and he only voluntarily moved to take the food that Barnes brought him before returning to his position. He picked at his food absently, but ate when Zolf told him to and complied with visual inspections with no resistance. Zolf tried to fill the silence: reading out loud from a Campbell novel, trying to engage Wilde in conversation. At one point he tried to discuss the weather, and quickly realized both that there’s only one way to say “It’s still raining,” and that he had run out of conversational topics. Wilde said nothing. He sat, and stared, and Zolf couldn’t tell if it was a defence mechanism or a trauma response, or if the thing in the cell was no longer his best friend.

If the days were difficult, the nights were hellish. Wilde had infrequent nightmares before now, invisible scars left by curses and dragon fire. Zolf knew about those nightmares, had heard Wilde screaming in the night, had held him as he shook and cried and tried to fight off things Zolf could not see. Now, in the cage, in the night after Zolf had extinguished the torches and Wilde had curled up on the small cot, he had nightmares every night.

These dreams were different than the ones Zolf had witnessed before. Wilde thrashed, clawing at the air, clutching at the cuffs around his ankle.. Screaming in pain, begging for mercy. Begging for forgiveness. Zolf thought he heard his own name in the bard’s incoherent ramblings once or twice, and he couldn’t tell if it was a call for help or a cry of fear. Sometimes Wilde woke up, screams subsiding to sobs and gasping breaths. He would pull himself up to his position sitting against the stone wall and draw his knees up to his chest, hugging them close, and stare into the darkness. Sometimes the nightmares seemed to fade away, and Wilde would relax into a silent yet restless sleep. Sometimes they would go on for hours until Zolf relit the torches and woke him up.

He never spoke about the nightmares, and Zolf never asked. He just watched in the darkness, holding vigil and hoping that when he could finally open the door of the cell there would be enough of his bard left to save.

* * *

“’The pirate captain removed his hat and pulled the scarf from his face. Long, auburn hair cascaded down to rest in elegant curls on his shoulders, and it wasn’t a man at all. Susan would recognize those bright green eyes, that warm complexion, those soft and rosy lips anywhere. Edith stepped forward, and fell to one knee. She grasped Susan’s hand and gazed up into her eyes, and asked the question they both had been desperately waiting for ever since those youthful days in Hartfordshire so long ago.’”

Zolf paused his reading and glanced up at Wilde. The bard hadn’t moved since Barnes had brought them lunch several hours ago, and the silence had become too much for Zolf to bear.

“Oh come on, that was the biggest reveal in the entire series! Surely you’ve got something to say about it. Was it moving? Were you expecting it? Was it the worst thing you’ve ever heard?” A note of desperation entered Zolf’s voice. “C’mon, Wilde. Please, just say something! Say something so I know it’s really you.”

Tears had sprung to his eyes and he slammed the book closed before they could fall on the pages. He looked at Wilde, searching for some kind of sign, some kind of indication that the bard had heard him, that he was listening. Wilde turned his head and looked at Zolf for the first time in 5 days, and there was something that might have been fear etched deeply in his eyes.

“Stop doing that.”

Wilde’s voice was soft and shaky, and it was the best thing Zolf thought he had ever heard.

“Stop doing- what? No! Just talk to me, Wilde. Please.”

Zolf moved closer to the bars, sitting on the floor and staring desperately at the bard. Wilde just shook his head and looked away again.

“No. We still don’t know how this works, how it transmits. Until the quarantine period is over, you can’t trust a word I say.”

“I know that, and I don’t care if I can trust you. I just want to hear your voice. I- I miss you.”

“That’s exactly my point. What happens if I talk to you and then I turn and you have to kill me? What happens if I’ve already turned and I’m trying to manipulate you? We don’t know how the change happens, if it’s gradual or sudden. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a different person. Maybe I’m already working for the enemy and I just haven’t realized it yet.”

Zolf was about to argue when he saw the tears falling from Wilde’s eyes. Some of them soaked into the bandage wrapped around his face, while the others streamed down to his chin.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He spoke barely loud enough for Zolf to hear, and his voice broke. Zolf pulled back from the bars, and returned to his stool.

“Ok, fine. You’re right. I mean, you’re usually right about this stuff. But I’m gonna keep reading to you whether you like it or not because I can’t just sit here in silence waiting to find out if my best friend is a monster.”

Wilde didn’t look back at him or reply, but he did give a short nod and Zolf took that as a cue to return to his novel.

“Right. As I was saying; ‘ She grasped Susan’s hand and gazed up into her eyes, and asked the question they both had been desperately waiting for ever since those youthful days in Hartfordshire so long ago...’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully admit I have never read an actual romance novel, I have made a completely uneducated guess as to what one might sound like. Also, sadness.


	4. Picking Up The Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quarantine period is over, and Wilde is... ok?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: descriptions of injuries, trauma responses.

7 days. 7 days of watching his best friend suffer, 7 days of being unable to do anything about it.

7 days finally over, the last visual inspection passed. Wilde was himself. A too-quiet hollow-eyed shell of himself, but it was _him_ , and he was _real_ , and finally Zolf could unlock the door, throw it open and wrap his best friend in his arms and hold him tight and feel his heartbeat and measure his breathing and just _hold_ him, and promise to never let go again.

He opened the cell. He all but ran towards Wilde, standing in the centre of the small room. He pulled the bard into a tight hug, and...

Wilde flinched. He didn’t pull himself out of Zolf’s grip but he shuddered, stiffened, and a slightly sickened expression coloured his face. Zolf pulled back slightly, not quite letting go of the bard’s arms.

“Wilde? What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m sorry. Please don’t...”

Wilde didn’t look at him. Zolf dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back awkwardly.

“Yeah, ok. Um, I’m gonna bring you to the baths so I can check out those wounds, and then I’ll leave you alone. Is that ok?”

Wilde nodded, still looking away from Zolf. He led the silent bard up the stairs, shaking his head at Barnes and Carter before they could say anything, and began to draw him a bath.

* * *

Zolf carefully removed the bandage from Wilde’s face, trying to touch him as little as possible. The bard sat still but flinched slightly when Zolf’s rough hands brushed too close to the wound. It had closed up, and as far as Zolf could tell it had healed as well as it could have without magical intervention. The bard would have a nasty scar, and there was some muscle damage near the mouth and eyebrow that would limit his facial movement, but there was no sign of infection. The bruises on his face and chest had faded to a mottled yellow-green, and Zolf found no indication of fractured ribs.

The cut on his ankle was a different story. The stitches had functioned in holding the wound closed, but the skin around the area was red and puffy. It was infected. Zolf had the necessary supplies to treat it, and the infection hadn’t spread beyond the wounded area, but it would take several days to clear it out and another few weeks to heal completely. Wilde would have to keep off that foot for at least a week, and Zolf would have to check it regularly to make sure the healing process was working.

He explained all of this to Wilde, who just nodded silently. After finishing his assessment, Zolf stood and turned to leave.

“You can get cleaned up now. And I’m sorry, I want to give you space but I can’t leave that untreated. We’ll get you set up in your office and I’ll check up on you and Barnes or Carter can bring you meals...” Zolf trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

“That’s fine, Zolf. I understand. Thank you.”

Wilde was still much too quiet for Zolf’s comfort, but he just nodded and left the man to bathe alone. There was definitely something wrong with Wilde, but the dwarf wasn’t going to try and press him for answers, at least until he had gotten somewhat back to normal. If he ever got somewhat back to normal.

* * *

The days that followed were... uncomfortable. Barnes set Wilde up with a pair of makeshift crutches, but he spent most of his time in his office. The infection cleared up and Zolf pulled out the stitches and continued his medical checkups, trying not to cringe when Wilde flinched away from him. Trying not to let his heart break any further when he saw the effort Wilde was putting in to hide those flinches.

He didn’t speak to any of them when they visited them, aside from a mumbled “thank you” when they dropped off meals or a one-word answer to all of Zolf’s questions during his examinations. He didn’t stop Carter from sitting in his office, but he flinched away whenever the archaeologist tried to touch him. Despite that, Carter stayed by his side, enduring the painful silence that Zolf and Barnes couldn’t handle.

* * *

After about a week, Wilde finally emerged from his room. He moved unsteadily with the crutches, but Zolf figured in a few more days he could start putting weight on that foot again. He joined Zolf, Barnes and Carter for breakfast one morning, navigating himself to his usual chair and wincing slightly as he sat, leaning the crutches against the table. Zolf grabbed another bowl and filled it with rice, placing a fried egg on top, and placed it in front of Wilde.

“Thank you, Zolf.”

He stared at the food for a moment before clearing his throat and fixing his posture.

“I need to apologize for my behaviour this past week-”

“No, you don’t” Barnes cut him off almost immediately. “No one needs to apologize for going through hell, then coming out the other side messed up. We get it. You don’t need to say sorry for hurting.”

Wilde swallowed and nodded, looking uncomfortable.

“I suppose you’re correct.” He looked down at his food again. “But I...ah, I- there are some changes, that I need to make.”

Wilde took a deep breath, and the others waited for him to continue.

“I’m... I’m removing myself from active duty. I should have listened to your concerns before... well. You were right. I have no combat abilities and going on missions is unnecessarily putting myself in danger.”

Wilde looked up once again, glancing at each of his companions. Zolf could see the apprehension on his face. He had no idea what to say, he’d never been good at the whole talking thing. And what was there to say, anyway? _I’m sorry? I should have pushed harder, should have made you stay, should have made you bring me with you? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you? I’m sorry I couldn’t save you?_

Carter was looking down at his hands and fidgeting, maybe thinking the exact same things as Zolf. Barnes was the only one who looked Wilde in the eyes, the only one who spoke.

“Good. We can’t afford to lose you.”

Barnes hesitated for a moment, then moved closer to Wilde and pulled him into a tight, uncharacteristic hug. Wilde didn’t flinch, but he stiffened slightly. Barnes let go almost immediately, looking extremely uncomfortable, and cleared his throat.

“Look, just... stay safe.”

He took his bowl and left the room, pausing only to give them all a nod from the door, face reddening. They sat in silence for a moment, and Zolf came to the realization that Barnes had been just as worried about Wilde as him and Carter, despite maintaining his reserved, stoic poise.

Eventually the silence was too much for him to bear, so he broke it.

“Alright. You two, eat your breakfast. We can get back to being sappy and strategizing and all that after we’ve got some food in us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done the bare minimum research required to both describe a bad cut and entirely avoid describing how infections might be treated in the 1800's. I am not and have never been here for medical accuracy.
> 
> I haven't gotten into Wilde and Carter's relationship pre-Zolf and Barnes, but the way I've set them up Wilde is one of the few people who just lets Carter be Carter with minimal interference and he's the closest friend Carter has ever had, so he's protective of him and gets very upset when he's hurt.


	5. Home is Such a Fragile Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde is different, and Zolf doesn't know what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: descriptions of trauma responses.

Time passed, and Wilde slowly became more... Wilde. He began to relax, to crack jokes again. He dove back into his paperwork and strategized with renewed vigour, but set it aside when Carter invited him to join their card games. On the surface, it was still Oscar Wilde. Still the charming bard with too much work ethic and an insufferable love of puns. But there were still little things, little quirks that poked up from beneath that surface. The smallest hints that all was not right, and would probably never be right again.

He would try to flash one of his flamboyant, winning smiles, and the light would go out from his eyes as the scar on his cheek tugged against the skin, preventing him from moving the right side of his mouth the way he used to. He flinched whenever someone touched him unexpectedly, and tried to hide it by sweeping his fingers through his hair but none of them were fooled.

And there were other changes, things that Zolf knew only he could have noticed. The slight shudder that ran down Wilde’s back whenever Zolf touched him. The barest hint of panic that crossed his face whenever Zolf used his first name. The way he wouldn’t drink anything he hadn’t personally prepared.

Zolf found himself feeling so alone in the bard’s presence, as if a wall had been erected between them, and he couldn’t get through. Couldn’t figure out why Wilde had shut him out. Couldn’t tell if trying to get through would help, or only hurt him more. He wanted to ask, wanted to demand that Wilde tell him what happened, make the bard let him in, let him help. But forcing a conversation that Wilde didn’t want to have wouldn’t help anything.

Aside from what had happened to him, who had hurt him, there was one question Zolf desperately wanted to know the answer to. He couldn’t ask it though. _How do you ask the man you rejected if he’s still in love with you?_ After their agreement, Wilde had loved Zolf quietly, without demanding anything. His hand had often lingered on the dwarf’s own a moment longer than necessary, and whenever either of them left the base he had held Zolf as if he never wanted to let go. They had spent hours together, talking or working in silence, and Zolf had sometimes noticed the bard gazing at him like he was the only thing worth seeing.

Zolf didn’t love Wilde in the same way, but he had gotten used to the bard’s affection. Had grown accustomed to it, and it had become just another fact of life. Carter was clingy, Barnes was touch-averse, and Wilde loved him.

Or, maybe, he should say Wilde used to love him. Those tiny gestures of affection were gone, maybe erased by whatever had hurt him, maybe eroded away by days of isolation. Now, when the bard looked at him, when he thought the dwarf hadn’t noticed his gaze, there was something approaching fear in his eyes. Apprehension, scrutiny. A tense anxiousness. Like an animal that’s been wounded before, carefully judging the hunter that approaches it. Wilde was afraid of him, and Zolf had no idea how to fix it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure it'd be pretty disturbing if someone who was in love with you came home one day with a ton of injuries and just. Stopped. 
> 
> Like, whether you love them back or not that's gotta be a weird experience at the very least.


	6. I Can't Clean Your Blood Off My Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde reflects on trauma and tries to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: descriptions of violence, gore, trauma responses.

Wilde tried to be ok. He really did. And it did get easier over time, the way people said it would. He didn’t flinch when Carter leaned on him anymore. Hell, sometimes he even relaxed into the archaeologist’s embrace the way he used to. He didn’t flippantly dismiss Barnes’ concerns when the commander asked about his health. And Zolf...

Zolf was the problem. No, no. Zolf wasn’t the problem. _Wilde_ was the problem, Wilde’s reactions to Zolf were the problem.

And he tried, he tried so goddamned hard. To fix himself, to be better, to stop being so broken. He could see the hurt in Zolf’s eyes every time he involuntarily flinched away. He could see how the cleric held himself back, lowered his voice, did everything shy of actively avoiding Wilde in an attempt to make him more comfortable. And he hated it. He hated how his imagination warped the dwarf’s expression into one of cruelty, the way his skin crawled when Zolf touched him. He hated how the face of the dwarf he loved, the one person he trusted most in this world, had become a source of fear and pain.

It was Zolf’s face he saw in his nightmares. Zolf’s voice that whispered in his ear, cold and cruel. _Don’t be like that, Oscar. It’s me Zolf. Your friend._ Zolf’s lips on his, Zolf’s hands that held him so gently. Zolf’s hands that held a knife to his throat, that drove that knife into his leg, that cut his face. Zolf’s hands that held him down and Zolf’s fists that pummelled into his chest, his face.

Zolf’s hands that had clutched at the knife in his own chest, blue blood seeping out from beneath them. Zolf’s voice that had cried out as Wilde plunged the knife into him, Zolf’s flesh he had felt resist the blade before burying it as deep as he could. Zolf’s face that had gone slack as he staggered back, blood rising from his throat and pouring out of his mouth as he tried to speak. Zolf’s blood, the wrong colour, that stained the lips that had been on Wilde’s body only minutes before.

Zolf, who had bled out on the floor of a dingy hotel room in Tokyo. Zolf, who Oscar Wilde had murdered. _Not murder. Self defence._ The distinction didn’t matter. _Not Zolf either, just some mook spelled to look like him_. That distinction didn’t matter either, at least not to Wilde’s subconscious. Zolf had hurt him, and Zolf was dead, and Wilde had killed him. And Zolf was right there in front of him, soft grey eyes full of sadness and concern, walking on eggshells around him trying to avoid reopening psychological wounds that he couldn’t possibly know the severity of.

And Wilde loved him for it. His face was a reminder of pain, but it was also a reminder that Zolf was alive, that he was here. That he still cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent chapter length is for nerds. Or like, people who are into regular formatting idk. People who aren't me.
> 
> Also yeah, of course Wilde's still in love with him. I will never let go of that headcanon.


	7. Some Wounds Will Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite everything, Wilde chooses trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains: descriptions of wounds, trauma responses

Zolf let out a low whistle as he removed the bandages from Wilde’s ankle for the last time. The scar was uneven and tight, as if a child had drawn a shaky line across his leg in red crayon. Having to rely on mundane healing meant that there would be irritation for a while before the scar tissue began to even out, and it would never fully fade away.

“Alright. Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Zolf asked as he discarded the used bandage, then moved to clean his hands.

“You know I don’t believe in good news.”

“Fair enough. Good news it is.” Zolf returned to his stool across from the bathtub Wilde was sitting on. “It’s healed as well as it’s going to. No infection, and the scar ain’t even that bad.”

Wilde raised an eyebrow, then raised the other when he felt it tug at the other scar across his face.

“Agree to disagree. What’s the bad news?”

Zolf shifted uncomfortably and frowned.

“I waited to say something cause I was hoping it might clear up, but it ain’t going to. There’s some permanent damage, maybe to a tendon. I don’t know for sure, I’m better at proper organs than muscular stuff. Basically, that limp ain’t going to go away.”

Zolf moved as if to take his hand, then pulled back and coughed slightly, looking away from Wilde.

“Whatever shall I do. My dreams of being Ireland’s most prestigious track star have been dashed into the dirt. Such a shame.”

Zolf looked up at him, clearly unsure how to react. Wilde twisted his face into the best approximation of his old smile he could manage, the one he was starting to get used to, bit by bit. Zolf saw what he was doing and smiled back, managing a slight chuckle as well.

“Gods, I’m going to have to put up with your jokes again.”

Wilde laughed, then took a deep breath. He reached out his hand and placed it gently over Zolf’s feeling that spike of fear and revulsion and pushing through it the way he’d been training himself to. Zolf seemed to freeze, then turned his hand cautiously so he was holding Wilde’s, looking into his eyes and gauging his reaction. It wasn’t comfortable, it would be a long time before it was comfortable again. But the gesture wasn’t nearly enough to show his gratitude, his appreciation.

He moved closer to the dwarf, kneeling on the bathroom floor next to him, and wrapped his arms around him. His heart started to race and his breath quickened and panic began to edge into his mind. Zolf mirrored his motion, wrapping his own arms around the bard and giving him a single squeeze before letting him go and slightly pushing him away.

“We good, Wilde?”

There was concern in Zolf’s voice. Wilde moved slightly farther away, forcing himself to slow his breathing.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Do you, um... do you want to talk about it?”

Wilde considered the offer, then shook his head.

“I can’t, not now. But I promise I’ll tell you when I can.”

Zolf nodded, and Wilde couldn’t help his internal sigh of relief. They _were_ good, or they would be eventually. Between Zolf’s stubborn hope and Wilde’s stubborn pride, they would get through this. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly a happy ending, but a hopeful one. 
> 
> I've got this piece of dialogue floating around my head where Zolf is like "don't get yourself into any trouble I can't save you from" and I didn't end up putting it here but maybe if I can make it sound right I'll shoehorn it into a future fic.


End file.
